


The Unendurable Drug

by lockedin221b



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Delusions, Drug Use, Drugs, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hallucinations, Hospitals, Injury, M/M, Missing Persons, POV Alternating, POV Third Person, Panic Attack, Psychosis, Psychotropic Drugs, Vulnerability, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-18
Updated: 2012-09-18
Packaged: 2017-11-14 11:59:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/515009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lockedin221b/pseuds/lockedin221b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One day, Sherlock Holmes discovers John Watson has been wiped from existence. No one remembers him, no records remain.</p><p>But in a world where John doesn't exist, he's the only reality Sherlock has managed to latch onto.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Unendurable Drug

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ganymead](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ganymead/gifts).



> For the [johnlockchallenges](http://johnlockchallenges.tumblr.com/) Johnlock gift exchange (over at tumblr). My recipient is [travellingtoaster](http://travellingtoaster.tumblr.com/) (tumblr)/[calamitybreak](http://archiveofourown.org/users/calamitybreak) (AO3), and the prompt was:
>
>> Sherlock wakes up one morning to find John gone, and that no one remembers the army doctor, as if he never existed. The brilliant detective then proceeds to use all of his detective genius in order to figure out what happened, where John went and what happened to him, and if they can return to the life they had before. OR, if that one’s not quite to taste, I would absolutely love anything wing-related. Wing fic or art is an absolute weak spot of mine… Ahaha
> 
> I hope I did your request some remote amount of justice.
> 
> All the love and thanks to [Megalicious](http://archiveofourown.org/users/megg33k) for editing. YOU ARE MAGIC, DEAR.
> 
> **NB: For logistic purposes, please allow some level of suspension of disbelief.**

_Everything is a dangerous drug except reality, which is unendurable._  
Cyril Connolly, "The Unquiet Grave"

Sherlock was studying the traces left by various hand soaps under his microscope when Mrs. Hudson unceremoniously interrupted in her usual cheery disposition. Back from the shopping by the sound of plastic rustling behind Sherlock.

“Haven’t you eaten today?” Mrs. Hudson clicked her teeth and went to the fridge.

“Might not want to open that,” Sherlock cautioned and smirked to himself.

“If you insist. Honestly, young man, you ought to keep food in there, not these awful experiments.”

Sherlock snorted. “Science, Mrs. Hudson. Far more important in the long term.”

“Nothing will come of the long term if you don’t feed yourself.” She set one of the bags atop the relatively cleared counter. “Nothing that needs cooking, so no excuses.”

“While the thought is appreciated, it’s really unnecessary.” Sherlock checked the clock on his mobile. “Besides, John’s bound to force me to eat something soon.”

“Who, dear?”

“John,” Sherlock said a little louder. Perhaps her hearing was going.

“One of your friends? I don’t judge, love, but I wish they wouldn’t carry in so much dirt on my floors.”

Sherlock narrowed his gaze on Mrs. Hudson, who had decided to unpack the non-perishable groceries she had brought up for him. “John Watson.”

“You’ll have to introduce me next time he comes around. I’ll make a nice tea for the three of us.” She closed the cabinets and smiled brightly at Sherlock before making her way downstairs. She called back airily, “Don’t forget to eat something, dear.”

Perhaps age was finally taking its toll on the sweet old woman’s mind as much as her body. Well, as soon as John came home, his presence would no doubt jog her memory. It should be soon, seeing as he’d gone out before Sherlock had even risen for the day.

Only John didn’t come home. He was out all day, all evening, and when Sherlock woke from a few hours’ sleep John was still gone. Maybe he had simply missed his coming in last night. Had he gone out? Pints with Lestrade? Was he at Harry’s, and Sherlock had simply deleted the information? He was trying to delete less when it involved John, if only to keep John from becoming cross with him for forgetting such dull facts. But habits were hard to break, and a simple ‘off to Harry’s for a few days’ was bland and dull and often automatically deleted without a thought.

Sherlock climbed the stairs to the upper bedroom and knocked at the door. No answer. He called John’s name and tried the handle. Unlocked. Unusual for John, who always insisted on some semblance of privacy in his life with Sherlock. Even despite some of the more recent changes in their relationship, like that fact that John would spend three or four nights a week in Sherlock’s bed anyway. Sherlock had recently pointed out the sense in simply moving John’s things downstairs at this point, but John had told him a few weeks of shagging wasn’t enough for him to make that leap. Sherlock hadn’t a blasted clue what John meant by ‘leap,’ but he dropped the topic since it appeared to make John a bit uncomfortable. Ironically, John was in his bed again a few hours later, but Sherlock decided to bite his tongue on pointing out this fact. It seemed like the sort of thing that would cause a door slammed in his face and no sex for several days.

There was an actual moment of hesitance before Sherlock flat out opened John’s door. A year ago—hell, a few months ago and he’d never have hesitated. The damned doctor was getting to him, and he couldn’t admit he was all too upset about it. But he did open the door, and the shock on the other side rendered his mind blank for a fraction of a second.

The room was empty. Bare as the day he met John. He scanned it meticulously, quickly, uncovering no trace that John Watson had ever lived in Baker Street. He swung open the closet, but it revealed the same thing. He fell to his hands and knees to peer under the bed, moved furniture, flipped the mattress. Nothing. 

Sherlock took the stairs two at a time, crashing into the parlour. How he had been so blind? John’s laptop was gone, his books, his stack of papers. Sherlock flung open the cabinets in the kitchen one by one. None of John’s plates, mugs. None of his food or beer in the fridge, just what Mrs. Hudson had bought the day before. No towel in the bathroom, none of his discarded clothes in Sherlock’s room.

Was it possible? Had John finally had enough of him? Had he upset him enough for him to go so far? How had he not noticed? It was John. He had to have noticed. But no, there was simply no trace of him. No sign Dr. John Watson had ever stepped foot in the place. 

Sherlock clawed in his pocket for his phone, his heart racing and his hands actually trembling. Why was he shaking? He went through his text messages, his contacts. Nothing. No John.

Of course he was shaking. John was missing. John had vanished.

No, he had to be sensible. Vanished couldn’t possibly be right. He had to be overlooking something. He rang Lestrade.

“I thought you preferred to text,” the detective inspector said dryly.

“Lestrade, I need to report a missing person.”

“Really?” He sounded amused. “You can’t find someone? You, Sherlock Holmes, can’t-”

“It’s John,” Sherlock snapped.

“Who?”

“John.”

“You know how many people in this city are named John? Good god, man, at least give me a last name to work with.”

Sherlock bellowed into his mobile, “John Watson!”

He could hear typing on the other end. “W-A-T-S-O-N. That it?”

“Yes, of course that’s it.”

“Well, no matches coming up. Come down here and we’ll get you a sketch artist.”

“Are you mad? You know what he looks like. You’ve had drinks with him.”

“You sure?” Lestrade’s amusement was fading. He sounded almost worried.

“Yes I’m bloody sure.”

There was a pause. Sherlock could hear the muffle of a hand over the speaker, but no voices, not even faint or distant. When Lestrade came back on he said, “I’m going to come around with that sketch artist, alright?”

“Yes, fine. Just hurry, you incompetent-” but Lestrade hung up. Sherlock chucked his mobile across the room where it had the grace to land on the couch rather than against the wall.

The wall. Sherlock clambered over furniture until he was standing on the couch, running his flat hand across the unblemished wall. Where was the spray paint? The bullet holes? The paper was the same, and there were no signs of repapering. None of this made sense.

He paced furiously until Lestrade arrived. He couldn’t even pick up his violin. He texted John’s number, but only received a return text saying there was no such number in use. He even tried calling that maddening sister of John’s, but she was out and he was too worked up to leave any sort of coherent message on her machine.

Lestrade arrived alone. Mrs. Hudson welcomed him in, and Sherlock raced to the door. He halted out of sight from the stairwell when he caught them talking, though.

“He hasn’t been acting oddly, has he?” the Yarder was asking.

“No, no more than his usual peculiar self. Oh, yesterday he insisted I knew one of his little friends who I’m sure I’d never met before. What was his name? John something.”

“John Watson?” Sherlock could hear the grimace in Lestrade’s voice.

“Yes, that was it. He mentioned him to you?”

“Under a similar assumption. I’ll sort it out.” Lestrade’s feet fell on the steps and Sherlock backed away into the parlour. Before they exchanged any words, the detective inspector looked Sherlock up and down very carefully.

“I’m clean,” Sherlock sneered. “I have been for years now, which you very well know. Or would know if you remembered John. Which you clearly don’t, and you’re clearly not interested in finding him, so now you can leave. Thank you for your concern.” Sherlock fell back into his chair and glowered at Lestrade.

“You can’t blame me,” Lestrade said and took the chair across from him. John’s seat. “Blathering on about someone who doesn’t exist? It’s a bit strange, even for you.”

“He does exist. I don’t know why neither you nor Mrs. Hudson can recall him, but there’s an explanation and I’ll have it. I’ll go to Mycroft if I have to, but I’ll figure it out.”

“You? Go to your brother for help?” Lestrade guffawed. “You’d die before you’d ask for his help.”

“Well this isn’t about me, is it?” Sherlock shot up and pulled on his coat and scarf. Lestrade rose and lingered behind him. Sherlock peered at him. “Following me?”

“The state you’re in? I don’t need you scaring bystanders.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “No wonder Mycroft calls you my handler.” He fled down the stairs before Lestrade could counter him, but he waited at the curb. “You didn’t bring a car.”

“I’m on a break. I can’t be watching your back on the clock, now can I?” Lestrade stuffed his hands in his pockets while Sherlock hailed a cab.

The ride to Mycroft’s office was silent. Sherlock fiddled with his phone, even tried calling Harry again, but was met with the same voicemail. He sent texts to Molly and Stamford asking if they’d seen John lately, but was only infuriated by identical replies of ‘who?’ After that, he stuffed his phone into his pocket and crossed his arms.

At Mycroft’s Whitehall office, Sherlock walked brusquely by the secretary with Lestrade apologising behind him. He burst into the office and stared levelly at his brother, who was on the phone.

“My sincerest apologies, ambassador, but a small crisis has just appeared and requires my immediate attention.” There was a brief pause for a response before Mycroft hung up. He raised a brow at Sherlock and said, “Your excuse for barging in here had better be a good one.”

“I need you to do something for me.” The words tasted as bitter as they sounded.

“Really?” There was the faintest twitch at the corner of Mycroft’s mouth. “And good morning, Detective Inspector.” He nodded to Lestrade, who had finally caught up to Sherlock.

“Mr. Holmes,” Lestrade panted, trying to catch his breath.

“I suppose you haven’t heard of John Watson either,” Sherlock scoffed and strode up to Mycroft’s desk.

“Should I have?”

“I need you to look him up.”

“Missing persons, I believe, is the police’s division. Not mine.”

Sherlock leaned his hands on the polished desk. “It depends how and why they’re missing.” Mycroft let out a longsuffering sigh and pulled out his keyboard. Sherlock straightened up. “John Hamish Watson, army surgeon. Formerly of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, invalided home for injury in his left shoulder.”

His brother typed as he dictated, and only a moment after he finished regurgitating the facts Mycroft shook his head. “No such man exists, officially or otherwise.”

Sherlock slammed his hand on the desk. “That’s not possible.”

Mycroft eyed him carefully. Sherlock knew what he was doing, what he was looking for, and he wouldn’t find it. He was clean, and Mycroft would find nothing to hint at otherwise. “What makes you so certain this man exists?”

“Perhaps because you’ve each met him?” He glanced back at Lestrade, dragging him back into this. “You practically stalked him the day after I’d met him.” Sherlock threw up his hands. “MAYBE BECAUSE I’VE BEEN SHAGGING HIM FOR THE LAST SIX BLOODY WEEKS.”

Mycroft’s eyes widened microscopically. He folded his fingers together and leaned back in his chair. “Well,” he said, clearing his throat. “It seems we have quite the mystery then, don’t we?”

 

John Watson walked briskly behind the nurse leading him through the medically clean halls, listening intently as she spoke and ignoring the pain in his casted and slung arm.

“I really do apologise, Dr. Watson. I know you shouldn’t have been discharged yet.”

“It’s fine,” John said, brushing past her concern. “I’ve had worse. Tell me again what’s going on? To be honest, I was dosed up on narcotics when Lestrade explained everything to me.” Truth to be told, he was just coming off his last dose and they had to all but tranquilize him to keep him from tearing off his adhesive monitoring pads and racing through London in nothing but a cast and a hospital gown.

“Mr. Holmes was admitted about eighteen hours ago after overdosing on MDPV. You’re familiar with it?” she added, looking over her shoulder to see the dark look on John’s face.

“Heard of it in the news.” What he had heard was Sherlock speculating on usage a few months ago, after a gruelling case with Lestrade, to which John replied with several curses and threats and a folded newspaper on the back of his head.

“He has since been exhibiting tachycardia, hypertension, hypertonia, and severe psychosis. He’s been almost entirely nonresponsive to external stimuli, but whatever he is hearing seems to be translated into his delusional state, and his responses don’t make much sense to us. Or his brother.”

“The first three are how he is normally,” John said with a grim smirk, much to the nurse’s displeasure. “Chance of heart failure?”

“It’s a serious concern at this time.”

“Sedation?”

“Short-lived, and quite frankly repeatedly adding another addictive substance into his system isn’t in his best interest. You’re aware he has a history with us, aren’t you?”

“Yes.” John’s chest felt even more weighted. “Before I met him, but yes.”

They finally came to a stop between one of the many doors, outside of which hung a chart and a card on which was written ‘S. Holmes.’ The nurse turned abruptly to John and studied him carefully. “I don’t mean to pry, Dr. Watson, but what exactly is the nature of your relationship to Mr. Holmes? We aren’t keen on having visitors for him, not even his brother, but the older Mr. Holmes was extremely insistent on having you see him.”

“He’s my best friend,” John said without a pause. “We’re flatmates. We’ve saved each other’s lives I don’t even know how many times now. Honestly I don’t think ‘best friend’ is even an adequate term. ‘Like a brother’ doesn’t fit the bill either.” He shrugged.

“Your relationship isn’t more... intimate?”

John raised a brow, but he’d heard enough of these assumptions over the last several years that he was more amused or annoyed than defensive at this point. “No,” John said. “We’re not ‘together.’”

“Then I have to warn you. He’s said some things—a bit loudly at that—to imply otherwise.” Before John could ask for clarification, she unlocked the door and opened it.

Questions disappeared and John walked past her into the room. His heart fell to see his friend, garbed and white and looking the worst he ever had, standing pressed into the far corner with his hands posed like he was playing the violin. John looked back at the nurse. “Can I have a moment?”

“It’s unadvisable.”

“I’ll take my chances.” He shut the door. He walked around the bed slowly, his eyes fixed on Sherlock, whose face was contorted and staring blankly ahead of him. “Sherlock?” There was a pause, and then he moved the invisible bow once more. John sat on the edge of the bed and ran a hand through his hair. “Hey, you git.” Another hesitation. He took a steadying breath. “Put that damn thing down before I break it over your skull.”

Sherlock’s hands fell to his sides, and had there been an actual violin it would have been sorely damaged by the fall. Sherlock screwed up his face, but he didn’t quite look at John. “John?” His voice was cracked from screams and shouting. It was an after-effect John had listened to plenty in Afghanistan. “Where are you?”

“On the bed, you idiot.”

For a moment Sherlock looked confused. Then he turned slowly to the bed and his eyes shot wide. He stumbled forward and collapsed at John’s knees. “How- This is impossible.”

“What is?”

“These.” Sherlock reached out and ran his hand along the length of something just behind John’s shoulder. “Wings?” He almost sounded amused.

John looked around, wincing at the pain in his arm. There was nothing there of course, but he could see the nurse watching wide-eyed through the door’s window.

“What’s wrong?” Sherlock’s voice pulled John back around.

“Broken arm, remember?”

Sherlock’s gaze traced the cast, but it seemed only half-focused. “How did that happen?”

“You don’t know? You were there.”

“I wasn’t. I don’t know. How did you get hurt? Who did it?”

“One of the serial killers we tracked down. What, two days ago? Arnold Jackson. Clipped me with a bit of lead pipe.” John forced a grin. “You weren’t too bad a shot yourself that night. Got him right in the thigh. He’ll make it, luckily. Bastard needs the pain, and the trial. Sherlock?”

Sherlock stood abruptly and turned half away from John. A scowl had shadowed his face. “He’s right here! Of course I haven’t gone mad. How can you not see him?” He gestured to John, but he was so close he almost smacked him in the face. His voice rose as he continued to shout at whoever he was seeing. The nurse came in and urged John out of the room, locking it up again.

“That’s the best we’ve seen him at,” the nurse was saying, but John was staring helplessly through the window at his friend, who had noticed his disappearance and looked absolutely panic-stricken and horribly vulnerable. John felt sick.

 

“Listen to yourself,” Lestrade shouted over Sherlock. “You’re not making any sense. You, of all people, should realise that.”

“I know it doesn’t make any sense,” Sherlock seethed. “But I saw it. I’m not drugged, intoxicated. I’m not even sleep deprived. But I saw it. So how else do you explain it?”

“Maybe he’s finally cracked.” Sally Donovan piped up from the doorway.

Lestrade snapped his head toward her. “I don’t want to hear it.” He looked back at Sherlock. “You’re talking about a man no one’s heard of, and now this man’s got wings?”

“What, like an angel?”

“Donovan,” Lestrade growled threateningly.

“Why are you even trying to talk sense into him? He’s obviously lost it.”

“Outside,” Lestrade said and pointed toward the stairs. Donovan scowled, but she left without an argument.

“Why is she even here? Oh,” Sherlock said, answering his own question. “You brought her in case you needed to use force.”

“Look.” Lestrade held out his hands in a gesture of goodwill. “I believe you about the drugs. I do, and so does Mycroft. But something’s obviously wrong here. So just come down to the hospital. They’ll run some tests, figure out what’s gone loose in that head of yours.”

“Sod off,” Sherlock snarled. He turned to his chair, where he had seen John only moments ago. John with a broken arm and—he hardly believed himself—wings. Dirty blonde wings the colour of his hair, spread over the arms of the chair. Sherlock shifted and sat down in John’s chair instead.

“Sherlock, would you just-”

“Out!” Sherlock shouted. There was a long silence before he heard Lestrade leave. Sherlock fell forward with his face in his hands. “John, where are you?” A few minutes later he whipped out his phone and texted Lestrade to look up a man named Arnold Jackson. Then he went to his old case files and began rifling through them for such a name.

 

John looked angrily at the male nurse blocking Sherlock’s door. “They let me see him yesterday. Why can’t I go in?”

“Patient confidentiality,” the man replied for the umpteenth time.

“It’s alright,” came a sickeningly familiar voice down the hall. John jerked around to see Mycroft approaching with a doctor at his heels. “Dr. Watson is permitted to inquire after this particular patient.”

“Mycroft,” John snarled. “What the hell is going on?”

Mycroft frowned. The bastard was actually worried about his brother. “It seems his condition’s worsened since your visit yesterday.”

“How is that possible? He was responding, for Christ’s sake!”

The doctor cleared his throat and Mycroft gave him leave to speak. “While his condition improved tremendously in your presence, Dr. Watson, Sherlock fell even deeper into his psychosis after you left.”

“What?”

“Backlash,” Mycroft said. “I made a mistake in encouraging your visit.”

“But he was better with me in there.” It was half statement, half question. “I mean he was still hallucinating, but he was doing better.”

“For that temporary moment, yes.”

“His heart rate dropped,” John said, surprising all of them. He rolled his eyes, particularly at Mycroft. “Really, after all the time I’ve spent around him I’ve picked up on a few things. He was still hallucinating, but all his vitals improved.”

“I- yes,” the doctor stuttered. “From what the nurse could observe, that seems to be the case.”

“Then that’s the solution. I’ll just stay with him until he comes down and stops hallucinating.”

Sherlock’s doctor shook his head in a show of commiseration. “Dr. Watson-”

“John,” Mycroft interrupted. “That’s hardly feasible, especially with your arm-”

“Damn my arm! You two can have all the bloody history you want, Mycroft Holmes, but you’re worried about him too and you know this is the best option right now.” John watched Mycroft and the doctor exchange glances. “Oh,” John said. “This is about what that nurse said. About Sherlock’s delusions.”

“My brother may have certain,” Mycroft cleared his throat, “expectations, yes.”

John thought for a quick moment before gesturing to his broken arm. “Can’t expect much if I’ve got this.” He grinned sourly. “Now let me in the god damn room.”

 

Sherlock started when he heard John’s voice, saying his name. He hadn’t heard him come in, but he hadn’t heard him last time either. He was standing at the foot of the bed, those impossible wings folded behind him, arm still slung in a cast.

He uncurled himself and sat up. “You’re back.”

John sat on the edge of the mattress, wings shifting out of the way. “Yeah, sorry. Had to dash. But I’m back.”

Sherlock crawled over and kneeled beside John. He reached out and brushed his fingers across the very solid cheek. John flinched. Slightly, so very slightly, but Sherlock noticed. He retracted his hand. “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing. Don’t worry about me. What’s all the shouting about?”

He scowled. “They don’t believe you’re real. They think I’m hallucinating.” His brow softened. “I’m starting to think they might be right. Perhaps my senses have betrayed me.”

“Because... Because of the wings?”

Sherlock nodded. He shifted on the bed and crossed his legs. “They think I’ve gone mad.”

“You’ve always been mad,” John said and grinned.

Sherlock felt himself smiling, breathing again. He leaned forward to press his brow against John’s uninjured shoulder. His hand searched out John’s and gripped it. “I was beginning to believe them. I thought maybe I had dreamt it all. Dreamt you.”

John squeezed his hand tentatively. “Well, I’m here.”

“What about the wings?” Sherlock smirked against John’s shirt. “Those are quite illogical.”

“Well, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, what do you make of them?”

“I haven’t the faintest. The idea of angels is preposterous.”

John let out a barking laugh. It was a good sound. “You wouldn’t want me for an angel anyway.”

Sherlock looked up and combed his free hand through John’s hair. “Wouldn’t I?” He could read the discomfort in John’s body and expression and frowned. After so many weeks, after sharing a bed so many nights, was John still so uncertain? He let his hand fall and released John’s. He rubbed his arm and felt suddenly tired. “Yelling at Lestrade is exhausting.”

John stood. “So get some sleep. I’m not going anywhere.” He motioned to the chair in the corner of the room.

“You won’t disturb me,” Sherlock said, looking pointedly to the other side of the bed.

“Arm,” John said hurriedly. “Hard to lie down with it. I’ll be right here, though.”

Sherlock lay down, and John came over to pull the sheets over him. Sherlock took his hand and kissed the back of it. “I’m glad you aren’t a dream.”

 

As soon as Sherlock’s hand relaxed, John pulled his own loose and let out a breath. Trying to figure out a way to pull Sherlock back to reality was going to be hard enough. Putting off his psychosis-induced advances in the meantime would only make things infinitely more difficult. He looked at the back of the hand where Sherlock’s lips had pressed only a moment ago. What was going on in that head of his?

A couple technicians brought in a cheap, hospital-issue recliner for John to sleep in. It was the middle of the day, but between Sherlock and his arm, he was exhausted. He passed out as soon as he was relatively comfortable in the chair, and didn’t wake for a couple of hours. When he did, Sherlock was sitting cross-legged on the bed watching him. John’s face grew warm and he sat up. “Everything alright?”

Sherlock nodded. “Where did you get the chair?”

John searched his mind frantically. Luckily, aside from the occasional minor deduction, working cases with Sherlock had given him a boost in being able to bullshit his way through things. “Mrs. Turner’s. Her boys brought it over while you were sleeping.”

Sherlock seemed to accept this answer and stifled a yawn. John took a moment to look around the room. Aside from the bed, and now recliner, the only pieces of furniture were a small table, a chair, and a nightstand. It was going to be a long few days with nothing to occupy them, especially if Sherlock got an itch for a case.

“Arnold Jackson.”

John looked up. “What about him?”

“I don’t remember the case. I can’t find anything on it, and the Yard has no record of him.”

“Odd,” John said, pretending to ponder this. “I don’t think you hit your head at all. Wonder why you’ve forgotten it.”

Sherlock huffed. “I’ve been so distracted with trying to find you, I’ve probably just deleted it.”

John smiled. “Maybe.”

“Tell me about it. Walk me through it.”

“What, like you do with me?” John teased.

Sherlock smirked. “Exactly. Just pretend I’m an idiot.”

“Oi!”

Sherlock chuckled, and John laughed softly.

“Besides, you are an idiot.”

John took him through the case, starting with the newspaper articles and Sherlock’s dancing around the flat with expectation. It was inevitable that whatever fool managing the case at Scotland Yard would be at their door in no time. A pair of double murders with clear links even they couldn’t miss was nothing to be lax about. Lestrade brought them in the day after the second pair, two days before the third. They’d spent nearly a week tracking down Jackson and his partner, Mathews, racing against time to locate them before a fourth pair of victims showed up. They were successful, but Jackson and Mathews figured out the police were on their trail and were ready for them. Before Lestrade’s backup arrived, John had a broken arm and both murderers had been shot. Mathews was dead, and Jackson injured. John went through every detail he could remember, from what he gleaned and the deductions Sherlock had shared aloud. He was sure there had been more to it, that invisible something only people like Sherlock and Mycroft could see, but whatever it was had been lost on John. As usual.

When he finished, his throat was dry from talking so much. He went out to get a drink and found a cart with sandwiches and water for them outside. He waited what he thought was a convincing amount of time before going back into the room with the tray balanced in his good hand. He set it down on the table and passed a plate to Sherlock. “Guess Mrs. Hudson left it in the fridge.” Sherlock looked at it like he looked at all food. “Come on, eat something. I’m sure you haven’t had a bite with all your running about, trying to find me.”

Sherlock relented and picked at his sandwich. Alternatively, John tried not to scarf his down. He’d barely had anything of the meagre hospital breakfast that morning before coming over to check on Sherlock. When he had finished eating, and Sherlock had managed half his own sandwich, John asked him if he remembered the case now.

“No,” Sherlock said. He certainly seemed concerned about the lapse in memory. John was hoping that was a positive sign.

“This is what you get for deleting stuff.”

“If I deleted it, it was under reasonable circumstances. You’re far more important than some serial killers.”

John flushed a little. “I appreciate the sentiment.”

 

Two days passed, during which Sherlock hardly left his room. John only left to make meals and brought back plates. It was peculiar that he was the one injured and yet the one taking care of Sherlock. Then again, Sherlock supposed it was practically habitual for John to make sure Sherlock did mundane things like eat.

But Sherlock was growing restless, and not for lack of cases. No, with John in his current state, Sherlock had no interest in chasing criminals. What bothered him was how John behaved, how he barely touched Sherlock except when their hands grazed as plates and glasses were handed over, or if Sherlock initiated contact. John was acting as if the last month hadn’t happened, as if neither of them had finally accepted and admitted stupidly sentimental things that Sherlock would of abhorred speaking or hearing were it not John he was speaking to and hearing it from. Now that he had John back, though, it was as if they were just flatmates again.

John was reading in the recliner when Sherlock decided he’d had enough. He got up and walked across to John, who looked up at him curiously. Sherlock cupped his face and leaned in. Before he could even touch his lips to John’s, though, John shouted his name and shoved him back. Sherlock stumbled into the side of the bed and sat heavily, staring horrified as John nursed his tender arm.

John’s eyes flickered up at him, nervous. “Twisted it,” he murmured. “Sorry.”

“No.” Sherlock straightened his back. “Something’s wrong.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean you’re not- we’re not-” Sherlock rubbed his hands back and forth rapidly through his hair. “You don’t remember,” he finally snapped.

“Remember what?”

“Us,” Sherlock said. God, he sounded pathetic. “Ever since you came back, you’ve acted strangely whenever we come into contact, physically. There’s no reason for it unless you don’t remember.”

“Sherlock, my arm-”

“You don’t need your bloody arm to snog me,” Sherlock said, eyes narrowed. John’s face went pink and he looked down at his cast. “See? I can’t even mention it without you getting flustered. You wouldn’t even let me hold you right now, would you?”

John murmured, face still downcast, “Wouldn’t my wings get in the way?”

Sherlock blinked. “Your what?”

“My-” John broke off, staring at Sherlock. His mind had clearly skipped to something else, but Sherlock couldn’t tell what.

Had he really heard him say ‘wings’? Was he referencing a conversation Sherlock had deleted? He had to stop deleting these things, no matter how mundane and unnecessary they seemed to him. If it involved John, he had to keep it.

John’s stood and put his book in the chair. “I’ll be right back.”

Sherlock’s chest fell. “John, it was not my intention to upset you.”

“I know.” John looked back at him from the door. “I’m not upset. Really, I’ll be right back.” Sherlock watched him leave, and he felt his entire being ache.

 

John knocked on Sherlock’s doctor’s door. He called him in and looked hopeful at seeing John. “Good news I hope?”

“I think so.” John rubbed a hand through his hair. “He doesn’t see wings anymore.”

The man sighed a breath of relief. “A loss of the fantastical element certainly sounds like an improvement. I don’t want to jump to any conclusions of course, but added to the ability to get at least some sleep without sedatives, I’d like to say this is a positive sign.”

“Doctor.” John shifted uncomfortably. “How much should I discourage his delusions? I don’t want to make things worse.”

The doctor frowned for a moment before realising what John meant. “Ah, you’re referring to how Mr. Holmes perceives his relationship with you.”

“Yeah.”

“It’s impossible to say for sure. His mind is in a fragile state right now. To be honest, Dr. Watson, I think you can gauge that better than I ever could. You know him best. Just don’t put yourself in harm’s way.”

“I won’t. How could I?” John laughed uneasily. The doctor just raised a brow and John hurried out of the office and back to Sherlock’s room.

Sherlock was pacing, but he halted as soon as John opened the door. “How’s your arm?”

“Fine,” John said. “I’m sorry I freaked out.”

“Don’t be.” Sherlock sighed. “Clearly I’ve done something wrong. I haven’t the faintest as to what, but that in itself is nothing novel. Would you at least be willing to explain?”

John looked at the recliner, and then sat on the bed beside Sherlock. “I’m worried.”

“About me? Ridiculous. You’re the one who’s injured.”

“You’re the one who can’t remember a week-long case,” John retorted.

“I also can’t recall anything about the solar system,” Sherlock returned with a cocky smile. John punched him lightly in the arm. Sherlock overreacted and rubbed the injury. “You can’t blame me. Under the circumstances, I was quite panicked. Even someone without my particular brain might have forgotten details under such duress.”

“You forgot a week.” John paused, but Sherlock only blinked at him. “Because you thought I was missing.” He nodded and John smacked him upside the head. “I was in the bloody hospital.”

Sherlock shrunk away at the second strike. “But Mycroft and Lestrade-”

“Were probably being pricks and couldn’t resist screwing with you for once. This is why you don’t piss people off all the time, Sherlock. It bites you in the arse.” The smile that momentarily crossed Sherlock’s face made John inexplicably uncomfortable.

“It was a cruel joke.”

“You’ve been cruel to a lot of people, and most of the time it’s those two.”

Sherlock slumped against the headboard. He sat up quickly a second later and looked around.

“What is it?” John watched nervously as the frantic look crept back into Sherlock’s eyes.

“My mobile. Where is it?”

John breathed. He could answer that one honestly enough. “You broke it.”

“What? When?”

“In the hospital. I was in surgery, but Greg told me what happened. He said you tried going after Jackson when they took him away for treatment, shouting obscenities they could hear down to the children’s ward. You chucked your phone at a wall.”

Sherlock’s shoulders hunched again. “Oh.”

“It was flattering,” John chuckled. “I think.”

Sherlock looked at him with that same gaze, somewhere between hurt and angry and worried and maybe even a little guilty, because John wasn’t reciprocating.

John put his hand on Sherlock’s knee, which in immediate hindsight probably wasn’t the smartest move. But he left it there and met Sherlock’s gaze. “I just want to make sure that annoying, brilliant head of yours is alright.”

Sherlock covered John’s hand with both sets of long fingers. “I didn’t do anything wrong, though, did I? To upset you? You know I’m rubbish about these things.”

“No more than your usually maddening self.” John smiled at him.

 

Four days after John came back, Mycroft came around. John led him back to where Sherlock was holed up in bedroom. Sherlock looked up from the medical journal he had filched from John in his short absence and scowled. “What do you want?”

“Checking up on you, dear brother.”

Sherlock scoffed and returned to the article on so-called ‘innovative’ surgical devices. He could see Mycroft and John exchange looks out of the corner of his eyes, but he pretended to be immersed in the article. They left, and by the time John came back Sherlock had finished the article.

“Honestly,” Sherlock grumbled. “Why on earth would you let him in?”

“He insisted,” John said.

Sherlock shifted over on the bed to give John room to sit. Last night John had finally permitted Sherlock to hold him for a while. It was a blissful seventeen minutes with his arms wrapped gingerly around John to avoid disturbing his injury. Eventually John rose, claiming his arm was stiff. It was true, from what Sherlock could deduce, but not the only cause. John was flat out uncomfortable around Sherlock, and he still didn’t know why.

John sat beside him on the bed and picked up his journal. He flipped to the article Sherlock had just finished. “Dull,” Sherlock muttered without a thought.

John threw his head back and dropped the journal in his lap. “You couldn’t let me just read it, could you?”

“I could tell you about it.”

“Why would you want to, if it’s so dull? Besides, you hate having to explain things to us normal people.”

Sherlock risked squeezing an arm behind John and around his lower back. He could feel the tension in John’s body, and the slow, forced relax. “I don’t mind if it’s you I’m explaining things to.”

John shook his head and put the journal aside. “Go on then. Tell me how boring cutting edge medical techniques are.” Sherlock smiled and did just that.

 

At the end of the fourth day in the psychiatric ward, Sherlock began experiencing signs of claustrophobia. He even said as much to John, who listened and waited patiently for a reasonable excuse to leave the room, seeing as he’d just got back from the loo.

“It doesn’t make sense,” Sherlock snapped, more at himself than at John. “It’s the same room I’ve had for years. The same bed. Why does everything suddenly feel smaller? More crowded?”

All John could answer was, “I don’t know.” He watched on worriedly as Sherlock began to pace the small room. In the end, he didn’t even manage a reason for leaving, just said he’d be back in a moment. In the doctor’s office, John said, “He’s claustrophobic. I think.” He explained the conversation he had with Sherlock, and watched the doctor jot down notes. He was too far away to read what he was writing, though.

“My guess is he’s perceiving the dimensions of the room as they actually are, though he still believes he’s back in Baker Street. And this started after his brother’s visit?”

“Not right after. We talked for a while once Mycroft left. A few hours later he went a bit frantic about things being too close together.”

“We may be seeing the end of his hallucinations. However, as delusion and reality vie for room in his brain, signals will get mixed and he may panic more.” He was trying to be vague about something. John rose a brow and waited for him to explain. “He has a history of violent outbursts.”

“Towards objects,” John countered. “Blasting holes through walls, chucking things across the room, sure. Never at people, though. Not without forethought.”

“Still, there’s such a thing as crossfire. And in his state-”

“I’ll be fine,” John cut him off. “What’s he going to throw anyway? A plate? I’ve been through minefields and come out alive. I can get through another one of his temper tantrums. God knows I’ve seen enough of them, with worse projectiles than some dishware.”

By the time John came back to the room, he was half convinced he’d find Sherlock in such a state. Instead, his friend was sitting on the bed with his knees folded up under his chin. He looked at John with such a confused, lost, vulnerable expression, John’s chest ached. He climbed onto the bed next to him. Sherlock unfurled at once, but just enough to curl into John’s side and cling to his shirt. He shut his eyes, and John put his good arm tight around him.

 

Sherlock grabbed John’s shoulder and pulled him forward in the recliner, waking his friend unkindly. John’s wartime reflexes were still fairly intact, though, and even with one arm he shoved Sherlock off of him.

“Where are they?” Sherlock demanded, panic coursing through him.

“What the hell?” John grunted, rubbing the heel of his hand against each eye in turn. “Where’s what?”

Sherlock just pulled him forward again, eyes tracing the back of John’s shirt wildly. “They’re gone. Where did they go?”

“What the bloody hell are you on about? What time is it?” John’s eyes searched out the clock in the room. “Christ, it’s half past three. Why aren’t you sleeping?”

“Sleep is irrelevant,” Sherlock snarled. “Tell me where they are.” His voice was rising into a near shout. John pushed him away again, and this time he kept his fingers pressed on Sherlock’s chest. Sherlock met his calm, worried gaze. Worried, yes, but this was no time to be calm. “Take off your shirt.”

John rapidly blinked away the last vestiges of sleep. “Excuse me?”

“Take off your shirt,” Sherlock huffed. “I need to see what happened.”

“Nothing’s happened, Sherlock. What are you on about?”

“Of course something’s happened. They’re gone.”

John stared at him, deep creases in his brow. After a moment, he stood and began fumbling one-handed with his shirt buttons. Sherlock reached forward to assist, but John slapped his hands away. “Oi, settle down.”

Sherlock’s fingers flexed and he was practically bouncing on the balls of his feet by the time John had the last button undone. He slipped his good arm out of the shirt and Sherlock went in at once to lift up the back of his vest. He blanched at once at the sight of two gaping red scars along John’s shoulder blades.”What happened to them?” he screamed. “Who did it? Who did this to you? Was it Jackson? I’ll kill him. I swear to god I’ll-”

“Sherlock!” John’s loud, clear voice brought him out of his rage. He sought out those clear blue eyes. “You’re hurting me,” John said. His voice was calm and level, but the pain was evident to Sherlock. He looked down and saw he had grabbed John’s wrist and was holding it in a vice of his fingers. He took his hand away and leapt back.

“I’m sorry,” he croaked. “Oh god, John. I’m sorry.” His gaze wavered over the red marks on John’s wrist.

“It’s fine.” John straightened out his vest and shrugged his shirt back on. “Now what are you talking about? Who did what to me?”

Sherlock looked up, but he didn’t make eye contact. “They’re gone. Someone cut them from you.”

“What?” John walked over and took his shoulder in his gentle but firm hand. “Sherlock, what did they cut?”

He found those eyes again and ran the back of his fingers across John’s cheek. John almost didn’t flinch this time. “Your wings,” he whispered. “Your beautiful wings.”

To his shock, and somewhat to his horror, John relaxed and let a long breath. “Sit down.” Sherlock obeyed, and John sat beside him. “Sherlock, I don’t have wings. I never did. You just imagined it.”

“But your back-”

“You want to look again?” John held out his arm.

Sherlock tenderly peeled off the sleeve and hesitantly raised the vest again. The angry scarlet marks were gone.

“See?” John said when Sherlock didn’t speak. “You just had a bad dream probably. Your head’s not quite right at the moment.”

Sherlock redressed John and put his hands in his lap, staring at them. “John,” he said in a low, quiet voice.

“Yeah?”

“What’s happening? This isn’t right. My senses have never fooled me before, not like this.” He tried to grin, but he imagined it probably just looked terrifying. “I actually thought you had wings. I’m going insane, aren’t I? My brain’s eroding, disintegrating. It’s the only explanation.”

John looked hesitant, but he finally said, “No it’s not.”

“Oh?” Sherlock raised a brow. “You have a better explanation?”

“You’re hallucinating.”

“Obviously. Isn’t that what I just implied?”

“You’re brain’s not going, though. I mean, you’ve probably done a bit of damage to it.” He rapped his knuckles lightly against Sherlock’s skull. “But it’s not permanent. At least it damn well better not be.”

“Hm. You seem to know something of which I’m unaware.”

“A few days ago you doped yourself up. Really badly.”

“Are you sure? I don’t remember.”

John rolled his eyes. “You just thought someone cut off my wings. Your mind isn’t exactly trustworthy right now.”

“Fair point. What did I take? Something new I gather.”

“Maybe. You haven’t exactly expounded on your history of recreational drug use.” The annoyed, bitter, worried tone was palpable. “I know you’ve got a penchant for tobacco, and Greg’s told me about the cocaine and heroin.”

Sherlock snorted. “Lestrade would deem it his place to reveal that information.”

John narrowed his gaze. “You have to stop this, Sherlock. I can’t- I can’t be around you if you’re going to put yourself at risk like this. Chasing murderers is one thing, but this? This is just stupid. This is your mind you’re endangering.” He raised his head. “And you were the one that said it’s the mind that matters. And when it’s you, Sherlock drive-me-up-the-bloody-wall Holmes, it matters a hell of a lot.”

“John...” Sherlock folded his hand over John’s, rubbing his thumb gently over the hidden bruise. “I’m sorry.”

“See? You’re even apologising.” He let out a dry laugh. “That’s how screwed up you’ve gotten yourself.”

“Forgive me?”

John took his hand from Sherlock’s. “Ask me again when you’re sober.” He got up and returned to the recliner, pulling up the blanket and closing his eyes.

 

It wasn’t the first time John found Sherlock staring at him. It wasn’t even the first time he woke up with his best friend staring at him, especially over the last several days. But on the sixth morning in the psych ward, John found that pair of grey eyes questioning, but oh so very clear.

“Morning,” John muttered and stretched his unhindered arm.

“May I ask you something?” Sherlock had his legs crossed and his fingers steepled under his chin.

“When have you ever needed someone’s permission?” John said wryly.

“Fair point. John, why are we in a psychiatric ward?”

John was suddenly very awake. He sat up straight and took a closer look at his best friend. He actually looked relatively well rested, or as well rested as Sherlock would ever get. His eyes were bright, searching, deducing. He was in need of a shave, they both were, and a proper shower that didn’t involve John waiting outside the door in case he went into a frenzy.

“How much do you remember?”

“I vaguely recall breaking my mobile against a wall inside a hospital, but I’m not sure how long ago that was.”

“A week,” John said grinning. “And after that?”

“I’m honestly not sure how much I recall is a dream or fact.”

“But you know where we are?”

“Obviously. We’re in the close-observation psychiatric ward of an institute I am not particularly fond of. I smell Mycroft in all of this.”

“Maybe, but you have only yourself to blame.” Sherlock raised a brow, but he didn’t object. “Wait here a tick.” John ran his hand through his hair before walking out of the room. He hesitated to lock the door behind him, but decided it was the best option for the staff and other patients, if not for Sherlock himself. He hurried off to the doctor’s office, and his heart fell when he saw the man wasn’t even in yet for the day. He checked his watch and realized it wasn’t even seven, so he slumped back to Sherlock’s room.

Sherlock was still on the bed, although now he was lounging back with his arms crossed behind his head. “Well?”

“We’ll have to wait.”

“For Dr. Patel, I presume. That is my doctor, isn’t it?”

“Had him before then?” John sat down on the edge of the bed.

“I’m an irregular of his, as Mycroft might put it. How’s your arm? I take it Jackson didn’t cause any lasting damage?”

John shrugged. “Probably the same as my shoulder in the long run. It’ll hurt when the seasons change and all. Almost a clean break, though.”

“Good to hear.”

“Can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

John raised a brow. “Will you answer it?”

Sherlock smiled, and it was a smile John hadn’t even realised he missed. “With you, probably. But I make no promises.”

“When’s the last time you were here?”

The smile dissolved as quickly as it came. “About eight months before meeting you.”

“Bad way?”

“Nothing too outrageous. Lestrade came by about a case and found me passed out in my own vomit.”

John pinched the bridge of his nose. “I don’t think I want to know what ‘outrageous’ is then.”

“Mm, probably not.”

They passed the next hour talking, with John avoiding all the questions he’d rather not have answered quite yet. When the doctor came around at eight, he was both delighted and begrudged to have Sherlock in exceedingly better health. The former because his patient’s health was improving; the latter because his patient was Sherlock and, now that his perception of the world was near enough to normal again, he proceeded to dissect his doctor’s life.

John stepped out with him after the evaluation was complete. “When do you think he’ll be able to go home?”

“With most patients, I’d say several weeks. It will still be a few days before his mind is more or less back to its full self.”

“But with Sherlock?”

He sighed. “His brother will likely have him discharged within two days. To be perfectly honest, I’m torn between my obligations as a physician-”

“And wanting the git out of your hair.” John smirked. “Don’t worry, I completely understand.”

“At least he has you looking out for him these days.”

John looked over his shoulder. “Don’t know if that’s really helped, seeing as he’s right back here.”

“See if you can’t figure out why he took the drugs. Not right now, give him a few more days. But someone like you, at least you could make headway with him.”

“I’ll try. Thanks.”

 

Thirty-two hours after Sherlock woke up with the awareness of where he was, he and John were back in Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson welcomed them home with a practical buffet, most of which went into her own fridge or the trash as the 221B fridge was in a horrendous state after a week of neglected experiments.

After they had finally, though kindly, shooed away the doting old woman, John collapsed in his chair. Sherlock went over to his violin, but he did little more than finger the strings and slide his hand across the bow.

“It’ll need tuning,” John commented.

“Of course,” Sherlock murmured. He looked up, about to say something, when John started talking again.

“God you need a shave.” John giggled. “I’ve never seen you with so much scruff before. You’re always so meticulous.”

Sherlock smiled. “A decent shower would be nice, yes. Do you mind?”

“No, it’ll take me twenty minutes to wrap this thing up anyhow.” He lifted his cast.

Sherlock nodded and went back into his bedroom. It felt somewhat alien to him. He remembered enough to know he had believed himself to be in the very room for several days, but of course the reality was no match to memories of a drug-induced delusion. He shucked the shirt and sweats the ward had sent him home in and carried his towel to the bathroom. He glanced quickly through the kitchen and saw the top of John’s head peeking over the back of his chair.

He let the small bathroom steam before stepping into the stall. It was frustratingly tedious trying to piece together what had been dreams, what had been his psychosis, and what had been real over the last week. John’s reluctance to share only gave him so much to go on. Still, it made one thing clear: Sherlock had either said or done some things that had made John uncomfortable. Possibly both. Considering his own, bothersome emotions when it came to John, and how he had behaved over something as ridiculous as a broken arm, part of Sherlock was less than keen to remember. But he needed to know if there was something he ought to apologise for, and if John wouldn’t tell him outright, Sherlock had to put the pieces of last week into place.

He closed his eyes, allowed the hot water to stream over his body, and opened all the doors and windows to his mind to air it out. The effects of the MDPV still lingered, but not enough that Sherlock couldn’t sift through the majority of the accumulated clutter. The one memory he latched onto early, more of a command to himself than anything, was ‘do not delete anything if it relates to John.’ He had begun formulating that command some time ago, though it had taken a while to take precedence over other commands and rules that filtered what was temporary and permanent in his mind. This time, however, it surfaced immediately. He latched onto it and went from there. It turned out less than helpful, though, since it seemed John was present in almost every image Sherlock had from the past week.

That realisation pulled him from the depths and back to the bathroom. With a slow breath, he dove back in, but every time that fact returned he couldn’t seem to go any further. Infuriated with himself, he scrubbed his scalp raw and nicked his cheek shaving. He slammed the tap off and wrapped himself in his towel. In the hall, he shouted curtly to John that he was done and cloistered himself in his room. After nearly an hour of failed attempts to organise his memories and thoughts, he was interrupted when John knocked on his door.

“What? Yes. Come in,” Sherlock snapped.

The door opened and John poked his head inside. He immediately shifted his gaze up. “Uh, you’re still in your towel.”

Sherlock looked down at his lap. Indeed, that was all he was wearing. “Oh.”

“You alright?” John slowly shifted his eyes back down until he was looking at Sherlock’s face.

“Distracted.”

“Ah. Well, put some clothes on before you catch cold.”

“It’s summer,” Sherlock called as John shut the door.

“Put your clothes on,” John shouted back.

Sherlock dressed in a tee and pyjama bottoms and shrugged on one of his light dressing robes. John had tea ready when he emerged. At once, his eyes fell to the dark purple handprint around John’s wrist, something he hadn’t seen until John exchanged his long-sleeved button-ups and jumpers for the comfort of a tee in their own flat.

“What happened?” Sherlock said with a dark frown. “I don’t recall Jackson or Mathews grabbing you.”

John gave his wrist a cursory glance. “Oh, nothing.” He handed Sherlock his cup. “Still stinks in here. We really need to clean the fridge.” He picked up his mug and walked off to his chair.

Sherlock followed after. “John- Christ!” He nearly dropped his mug as hot tea splashed onto his hand.

John set down his mug and took Sherlock’s from him. “Go run it under cold water.”

“John-”

“Now.” John gave him his standard doctor mode look, which rarely gave Sherlock any other choice but to do as he said or else be ignored or walked out on for the rest of the day.

So Sherlock obliged, if only to get back to the point sooner. He did little more than let the tap splash on his hand before patting it dry and hurrying back to the parlour. John looked ready to argue the matter, but Sherlock didn’t give him a chance. “Did I do that?” he said bluntly once he was back in the living room and standing in front of John’s chair. The immediate pause was all the answer he needed. “John, I’m sorry. I-”

“Weren’t in your right mind. It’s alright. Just a bruise, it’ll heal up in a few days.”

Sherlock’s hands fluttered at his side for a moment. What he wanted to do at that moment was lift John’s hands and gingerly kiss the marks he had so cruelly left. That would not do, though. He went to his chair and picked up his cup, and the room fell into silence.

 

They had been back in Baker Street for a week. John came home from his check-up and found Sherlock on the couch with his toes curled on the edge of the coffee table and his laptop propped on his knees. He seemed to be recovering well enough, but he refused to talk about the week in the psych ward. John suspected he remembered most of it, if not all of it, and was simply being very Sherlock about the whole ordeal.

Sherlock glanced up for a brief moment before returning to whatever he was working on. “Good to know your arm is healing properly.”

John hung up his key and walked over. He, at least, had made up his mind about certain things that had occurred during that week. He sat down right next to Sherlock, forcing their shoulders and hips flush. Sherlock looked over at him curiously. John took the laptop from him, clicked the save button for whatever he was doing, closed it, and put it aside on the coffee table. “I need to ask you something.”

“That much I gathered.” Yes, back to the same old Sherlock.

“Don’t dodge, and don’t lie.”

His flatmate just raised a brow and nodded.

John took a breath. “Why did you do it?”

“You’ll have to be more specific, John. I can’t actually read minds.”

John grimaced. “You know very well what I’m talking about, but fine. Why did you overdose? No,” he intercepted Sherlock’s next comment. “You probably didn’t mean to. Right. So then why did you dope up? It wasn’t boredom. They narrowed the timing down pretty well, and it wasn’t long enough after a case like that for you to simply be bored. And if you were just bored, you’d have gone for the nicotine first. So why did you do it?”

There was a long stretch of silence between them, during which neither averted their gaze. When Sherlock spoke, it was surprisingly soft. “You know why.”

“I need to hear it. From you.”

“I was angry. Furious. You’d been hurt.”

“It’s just a broken arm,” John said in barely more than a whisper. “It’s healing.”

“I know. Logically, I know.” Sherlock’s hands clenched into fists on his thighs. “But it drove me mad.”

“You’ve always been mad.” John smiled tightly.

“John-”

He put his hand on Sherlock’s knee. “I’m sorry, I know what you’re saying.”

Sherlock looked at the hand, the edge of the bruise hidden by the cardigan he had worn out in public to hide it. “If you want to leave, I’ll understand.”

John frowned. “Why would I leave?”

“I remember the other week. Not perfectly, but well enough. I know what I did, what I said.” Sherlock closed his eyes. “You’re not obligated to be my caretaker, John. You’re too good to just turn your back on me, but I’m telling you to. No one will think less of you. I certainly won’t. You’ve stuck around longer than anyone expected, even me, and I knew you’d stick around longer than anyone before has or ever will. I sincerely appreciate it, but it’s unnecessary and illogical-”

John cut off his diatribe by folding his hand over the closest fist. “Shut up. For ten seconds, just shut up and let someone speak for themselves.”

Sherlock opened his eyes but he only stared down at John’s hand on his.

“I’m not your bloody caretaker. I’m your friend, you git. And I can make decisions for myself, thank you very much. Now, if you want me to leave-”

“No.”

John smiled. “Then I’m not leaving.”

“But what I’ve said. Doesn’t that tend to make friendships rather uncomfortable? For both parties?”

John wanted to laugh at how absolutely childlike Sherlock seemed at the moment. He bit it back though. “You’re not the only one who’s had a lot to think about the last few days.”

Sherlock finally looked at him, and after maybe half a second his eyes went a little wide. “But you’re-”

“Oh, for god’s sake!” John squeezed his arm between Sherlock and the couch, curled it around his shoulders, and tugged him over until Sherlock’s head lay against his chest. “You’re ridiculously insufferable.”

“Which is one reason why your present decision seems very illogical.” He reached up and brushed his fingers along the hand protruding from the cast.

“Yes, well,” John huffed. “I’ve never been the most logical of the two of us, now have I?” He grasped the tips of Sherlock’s fingers.

“No, you haven’t.” Sherlock turned his face into John’s chest and smiled.

John rested his chin on top of Sherlock’s head, thinking—hoping—something good might come out of Sherlock’s nightmares after all.

**Author's Note:**

> * MDPV = "bath crystals"  
> I did my drug research at [erowid.org](http://www.erowid.org/)
> 
> And not that he'll ever read this, but huge kudos to my big brother who doesn't question me when I ask him questions about drug-induced psychosis. Yeah, my family gets the whole 'I'm a writer' thing.


End file.
